Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(64)

It is a very terrible place, that condemned cell, and even though I trust I am not a fanciful woman I was aware of a feeling of such fear and despair that it was as if it lay on the air, like the stench of curdled milk.

At first I thought the prisoner did not recognize me, so I sat on the single hard chair provided and introduced myself, reminding her how we had met on several occasions when she came into the shop for purchases. (Mostly items of adornment they were: creams and lotions for the face, and softening ointments for hands. A vain creature I always thought her.)

She did not reply, and I was about to speak again when she turned her head very slowly and stared at me. As God is my judge, there was something very frightening in that blank, mad stare. I had been prepared to encounter madness though; there is surely no sanity in the mind of a woman who has killed – and the killing so shocking.

‘Mrs Porringer,’ she said at last, as if trying the words out, and seeing if they could be arranged in a recognizable pattern. Then, ‘Yes, I do remember you.’

She has a soft voice, educated I suppose it could be called, and although she did not actually say, ‘Oh, yes, you’re the shop-woman,’ I heard it in her tone, and charitable as I was resolved to be, a deep resentful anger churned up for a moment. I dare say we could all have nice gentle voices and money for creams and scented oils for smooth white skin if only we had been born into comfort and married into money.

(I had intended this to be a formal account of the event, but do not see why I should not incorporate a few thoughts and opinions of my own, since it is unlikely anyone will ever read it, aside from Mr Porringer, who does not count and knows better than to gossip anyway.)

As for gossip – I do not, myself, listen to it, but it is not always possible to avoid it, and the word is that this woman came from a good, but impoverished family, and that the marriage to Mr Breadspear was arranged to mend the family fortunes.

So the prisoner whom Maria had been summoned to care for had been Augustus Breadspear’s wife. Michael had not expected this; there had been no mention in any of the letters of Breadspear having a wife – although that was probably not surprising, if she had been hanged for murder.

But the murder of whom? He continued reading.

The pimpled man remained outside the cell, but he did not close the door completely, and he watched as I gave Esther Breadspear the draught Mr Porringer had mixed. A tincture of opium it was, as detailed in the Poison Book kept at Mr Porringer’s shop. Mr Porringer had added a spoonful of honey to sweeten it a little. Myself, I should not have bothered with such a refinement (and honey so expensive), but he was ever susceptible to a soft manner and a doe-eyed prettiness. If I did not keep a firm eye on Mr Porringer, he would certainly be handing out credit to all and sundry, and plunging us into poverty.

7.30 p.m.

Supper in governor’s private dining room. He has rooms adjoining the gaol, and he is an unmarried man which is a pity, although I suppose there are very few women who would care to have their home within prison walls. Perhaps, though, he will have more conventional quarters in the new gaol building. And as it is, he seems well served by his household.

The prison chaplain was there, and Mr Porringer had thought that the hangman himself might also be present, which was not something I viewed with equanimity. To sit at table with the hangman cannot be regarded as a comfortable situation for anyone. Also, Mr Porringer is apt to suffer from acidity if he is upset, and if dining with the Queen’s executioner is not upsetting I do not know what is. (I discovered shortly before supper that Mr Porringer had not brought his bismuth mixture. I was not best pleased, for I had reminded him of it before leaving, but it is typical of him to forget despite the reminder.)

However, the hangman did not appear and the chaplain murmured something about there being a tradition of him, along with his assistant, taking his supper at some local pub.

The meal was most agreeable, with linen table napkins, and four courses – soup, roast chicken, a dessert of syllabub, and sardines on toast for the savoury. Mr Porringer, after a warning frown from me, declined the syllabub, but partook of everything else.

9.00 p.m.

I am about to go along to the condemned cell, where I am to spend the greater part of the night.

I am unhappy about Esther Breadspear’s behaviour in the coming hours, but I cannot think I shall have to deal with any actual violence – she can have no animosity towards me personally. When I put this point to Mr Glaister, he said that condemned prisoners generally have animosity towards the whole world in their final hours, and I must be prepared for all eventualities.

However, the pimpled man will be immediately outside the door, the chaplain will be nearby, and I have more of Mr Porringer’s opium draught if needed.

It will be difficult to fill the hours until the morning. Sleep is clearly impossible, except perhaps in short snatches. The chaplain will visit us during the night, and has promised to leave a Bible with us. I feel, though, that we should not read any of that, for it will be read aloud in the morning, as the woman is taken to the execution shed. There is a door from this part of the prison leading on to a small courtyard, in which is situated the execution shed.

I had thought I might take in my needlework, but of course needles or anything sharp cannot be allowed. However, I believe we are permitted to play simple games – backgammon and perhaps piquet.

I shall also take writing paper with me, in case the woman wishes to record any last thoughts. A pen and inkstand will not be allowed, but several charcoal sticks, of the kind used by artists for sketching, have been brought, which will do perfectly well, and I shall make some entries in this book.